


Post-It

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Flash Fic, Fluff, Just some warm fuzzies bc I felt like it, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Successful Revolution, get-together, semi-character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Connor takes up Hank’s habit of leaving post-it notes on the bathroom mirror.





	Post-It

**Author's Note:**

> Just a li’l thing I wrote at 2am bc I was suddenly overwhelmed with creativity and happiness 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ Thank you,  _ the post-it note says in perfect CyberLife Sans,  _ for letting me stay.  _

 

Hank leans over the sink to splash cold water over his face, and ignores it. He shouldn’t be thanked for common decency, after all.

  
  
  
  


_ Have a good day,  _ the next one says, lined up neatly beside the first. Hank shakes stray water from his face and a few droplets hit the paper, making the ink bleed. He’ll have a good day when Detroit remembers how to be a city again. Once the curfews are lifted and the revolution fades into history. 

 

Maybe not even then.

  
  
  
  


_ Lunch is in the fridge,  _ another note says, and Hank actually plucks that one off the mirror, crumpling it in his fist. He doesn’t need to be taken care of. He doesn’t need a housemaid. He’ll use this one to bring up a conversation he doesn’t want to have, but apparently needs to. He stuffs the post-it in his pocket and forgets about it. 

  
  
  
  


_ Haircut: 3:30,  _ says the next. Hank grumbles to himself, pushing limp strands out of his face. He’s being fucking nannied by an android who should know better. As soon as he gets his ass back onto the force, the better.

  
  
  
  


_ It suits you. Don’t forget to shave.  _

 

Hank runs a hand over his beard, dabbing it dry with the nearest towel to hand. It smells musty, still damp from previous uses. He doesn’t care. His beard is trimmed and his hair is shorter, dead ends cuts away, fucking  _ conditioned. _ But he looks… Better. Cleaner. Yeah.

 

He tosses the towel onto the floor. It isn’t a big deal.

  
  
  
  


_ Sumo’s diet starts today. NO treats.  _ Treats is underlined three times. Hank allows himself a brief huff of amusement. He peels a note off the stack and adds his own, his first reply to any of the messages.

 

_ if he hates you after this it’s not my fault _

  
  
  
  


Hank half expects the next note to be smug, even if Hank’s well aware that it’s damn near impossible for Sumo to hate anyone who’s ever paid him attention for more than five minutes. And he’s right, but how such an aura of smugness can emanate from a smiley face, Hank will never know.

 

_ :) _

 

_ fine,  _ Hank scrawls on another note, sticking it underneath.  _ you win. _

  
  
  
  


Hank stares at the notes now framing the left side of the mirror. This is the first time there hasn’t been a new message waiting for him. He was almost used to them now, almost enjoys replying. Before he can talk himself out of it he uncaps his pen and scrawls a brief note that he slaps against the mirrored surface with more force than necessary. 

 

_ you don’t have to go if you don’t want to _

 

Trust CyberLife to fuck things up again under the guise of “helping”.

 

He doesn’t get a reply for two days, and when he does, he has the glow of a cycling red LED burned into his eyelids.

 

_ I want to stay. _

 

Relief is not a familiar friend, but it sure is nice when it stops in for a visit. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Hank wouldn’t describe any part of his life as  _ peaceful _ .  _ Slow _ , maybe.  _ Apathetic _ used to fit those awful days when Hank was slumped over the kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey, a revolver, and a photo too painful to look at it. Everything passed in a dull drag of muted sound and sensation. Nothing particularly stuck. Everything just sort of… Happened around him. 

  
  
Or it used to, anyway. Hank wonders, not for the first time, how it feels to shift from machine into deviancy. If it’s anything like how he feels now, goddamn can he sympathise. Being flung from numbness, from habit, into a world vibrant with colour and feelings? Shit, it’s a lot for Hank to process and he’s got practice. For someone like Connor, new to life in every way, it’s gotta be more than a significant shock. 

  
  
He handles it well enough, outwardly at least. He’s a thoughtful creature by nature, always analysing, stuck in his own head more often than not. Lately Hank’s more used to seeing yellow whirring at his temple more than any other colour, while he takes in new things, tests his own reactions to new stimuli. 

  
  
It’s kind of cute. Mainly because Connor’s new emotional responses show plainly on his face and he now has the cutest habit of scrunching up his nose when he thinks. It’s strange, how Hank’s entire worldview has shifted now, from his vehemently anti-android opinions to this greater scope of acceptance, all because of one prototype with pretty eyes and a dorky smile. 

 

Said dorky android, who has cultivated a multi-coloured mosaic of tenderness around Hank’s bathroom mirror. 

 

The same android, who is never far from Hank’s thoughts. Whose newly found opinions matter more to Hank than anyone else’s. 

 

Hank had a word for that, once upon a time; the trust and regard born of mutual, well-earned respect. A soft and tender thing, but strong and enduring, he’d have named it hopefully not too long ago. 

 

Now there’s a hesitation that wasn’t there before. But only because he suddenly has so much to lose again, and he’s lost so much already. 

 

He can’t calculate probabilities in the same impossible way that Connor does, but he knows enough that a single false step or wrong move could shatter this near-perfect equilibrium. 

 

So maybe his life isn’t peaceful. But it’s better than it has been for a long, long time. 

 

Especially when certain androids are so much braver than their human counterparts. 

 

And Hank will remember exactly three wonderful days with perfect clarity for the rest of his life. Cole’s birth, his promotion from the Red Ice task force, and the day Connor found him outside Chicken Feed with a smile softer than sunlight. 

 

Walking into his bathroom on a warm Tuesday in spring, while the world outside slowly begins to adjust to change, rounds that number up to four. 

 

_ I love you, Hank,  _ the post-it note reads. Hank’s reflection beams.

 

 

 


End file.
